


Assassin

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Gen, Violence, Winter Soldier AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-17 03:59:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1373101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been almost five years since the first killing.<br/>They passed it off as nothing - or, well, none of their business, at least. A case of the crazies, or some sort of gang-related activity. Not their usual fare, at all.<br/>They couldn’t have been more wrong. But Sam would have given anything for the truth to be different; for it to be better, and less heartbreaking.<br/>sastiel Winter Soldier AU - warning!! Possibly spoilers for Captain America: The Winter Soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An idea that wouldn't leave me alone after I saw Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Probably done before/differently/better by someone else, but I had fun writing it :))
> 
> Spoiler alert!! If you haven't seen Captain America: The Winter Soldier yet, then this work could possibly spoil you. Fair warning!!

It’s been almost five years since the first killing. 

They passed it off as nothing - or, well, none of their business, at least. A case of the crazies, or some sort of gang-related activity. Not their usual fare, at all.

They couldn’t have been more wrong. But Sam would have given anything for the truth to be different; for it to be better, and less heartbreaking.  
The first killing was a highly paid lawyer: a prosecutor in New York, who was responsible for locking away a whole bunch of gang members, and people responsible for organised crime. Dean pointed out the article to Sam, saying how it would make a great mafia flick - not least because the perpetrator of the hit hadn’t been caught. There were eye-witnesses, though: the guy wore a black mask, and had shaggy hair that obscured his face further, making it even harder to identify him. He wore all black - the trashier newspapers were calling him an ‘Avenging Angel’, after a remark made in poor-taste by a high-profile criminal, stating that he must have an ‘Avenging Angel’ looking out for him, given the luck of his prosecutor being murdered.

The name stuck, simply because the murderer apparently appeared out of thin air, snapped the guy’s neck, and disappeared again. 

But Sam doubted that highly, as he glossed over the article, not giving it too much attention.

The Avenging Angel - _God, was he loathe to call the guy by that fucking name_ \- struck again rather conspicuously a year later. This time, though, the target was peculiar: just a kid. The boy was in his final year of high school, with high hopes and big dreams, stolen away when his neck was snapped on his way home from school one day. It happened in broad daylight: the perpetrator obviously didn’t fear being caught. The CCTV and the witnesses - of which there were five or six - all pointed to a figure similar to that of the assassin presumably hired to kill the prosecutor. 

But Sam didn’t think about the perpetrator, when he read the article: after all, who knew who the kid had connections to? A senator, a congressman, a CEO - their kids were all targets, and it wasn’t outside the realms of possibility that the attack hadn’t been as random as it seemed. And, besides - it _still_ wasn’t their type of thing. 

No: when Sam read the article, he thought of Kevin. 

Kevin, who had had aspirations much larger than the small-town life he’d been given; Kevin, who’d had all of it snatched away in a flurry of prophecy and scripture and evil. Kevin, who he’d gotten killed. 

And that got Sam thinking about all the people they’d lost: Dad, Bobby, Ellen, Jo … _Cas_. 

Cas had been gone for a few years, now. But Sam could still picture his face, thankfully: he’d still wake up, and stare at the other side of his bed with hooded eyes, make-believing that he could see Cas’ body there beside him. He would fantasise about reaching out, and brushing against Cas’ soft skin; his ruffled hair, or his stubbly cheeks. 

But there was always nothing there. No gentle words, or loving touch; no strange humour, or whispered declarations of love. Cas was gone. The other angels had taken him, and he was dead. Sam had never seen wings burned into the ground: there had been a simple black scorch-mark, though, that burned away all hope of the one he loved being alive anymore. He was sure as the days were long - _as the nights were long, and lonely, and cold without Cas there_ \- that Castiel was at peace … He sure hoped he was at peace, anyway. 

The third time, in as many years, the victim was a hunter. Not one that Sam or Dean had ever met, or come across - but one they’d heard of. He specialised in werewolves - and those kinds of guys never lasted long, which was usually their grim intention - but this definitely wasn’t an animal attack. His neck was snapped. 

They investigated that one: they posed as FBI to see the body, seeing as the guy died in Kansas City, MO, and they were nearby at the time. When they saw it, however, they realised they’d been wrong to disregard the case. Because, in the space dead centre between his shoulder-blades, the man had a sigil that both brothers instantly recognised as Enochian; it looked like it had been branded onto the skin. Reviewing the scant footage of the murder - in which, yet again, the perpetrator made no effort to hide - they saw him place a hand bathed in shadow between the man’s shoulder-blades, and a blue-white light emanate from it. The murderer had marked him, and simply vanished into thin air. 

It was like nothing they’d ever seen before. Sure, it burned Enochian into the hunter’s back, but it didn’t move like an ‘angel’, as everyone called it: it was an assassin, with gracefully moving limbs; bulked-up muscles, and single-minded purpose. There was no smug air of righteousness - well, none that was apparent to the brothers. The man always wore that damn mask: again, not something they’d ever seen an angel do. 

So, with a lot of persuasion, they pulled the files of the two victims they knew about: that was how they found out that the rabbit-hole went much deeper than they thought. The authorities had buried the burning of the symbols into the victims’ backs; additionally, a little digging showed that there were tens, if not _hundreds_ of other confirmed victims in the continental US whose cases had been kept quiet, or whose murders hadn’t been filmed or witnessed. 

As he stared down at the mutilated bloodless skin and the crushed, misshapen necks of the victims, Sam felt uneasy. This was the work of a professional, yeah … But a professional _what_ , he couldn’t say. If it wasn’t an angel, what was it? Unless they were hiring assassins, now … And besides, why these victims? 

It took over two years for them to find another workable lead. After over two years - _over 24 months, over 96 weeks_ , Sam counted - they just happened to be in the right place at the right time. 

They’d moved on to other cases, after about a month of dead-ends and false leads; after Dean had drank too much, and Sam had deprived himself of sleep, unable to rid himself of the sense of unease he felt whenever he looked at the crime scene photos, or the arrest warrants, or the branded-on symbols … He remembered a time when Castiel would have pried his fingers with a gentle yet persuasive grip from the case files, and whispered ‘ _come to bed_ ' like some cliché film spouse; when Sam would have responded to the suggestion with a kiss; when they would have spent the rest of the night entangled in a mass of limbs and sheets, comfortable and blissed-out and just … _Happy_. 

But Cas wasn’t there. So he didn’t go to bed. He didn’t think he could sleep - and the sight and the _feel_ of an empty bed would simply be too much for him to bear. 

They were interrogating an angel, trapped within a circle of holy fire: stunt-angel number 5 obviously wasn’t as committed to keeping state secrets as others were. So when he started blurting out the information Dean had searched high and low for, and that Sam had torn himself apart in the pursuit of for the past two years, it surprised them. They both felt somehow responsible, for not catching what was going on after the first case: this was their chance to right that wrong. 

"You - you want to know about the Avenging Angel, right?" The angel asked, his eyes wide and his expression hopeful, in the light of the holy fire that burned at his feet. Dean shifted on his feet; Sam simply stared, lips parted, and feeling unable to breathe.  
"Sure," Dean replied, acting nonchalant.  
"You’ll let me go, if I tell you?" The angel asked, sounding slightly desperate. _Must be a young one_ , Sam thought idly, his mind mainly focussed on the possibility of stemming the seemingly-unstoppable flow of pictures of mutilated corpses that were perpetually wallpapering his desk. 

"Of course," Dean replied, with a disingenuous smile. The angel foolishly believed him.  
"Then ask, and I’ll answer," The angel encouraged them, looking smug - though the brothers knew that his pride in his negotiation skills was totally unwarranted.  
"Is he … Is he one of you?" Sam asked, his voice low.  
"… You could say that," The angel replied with a smirk. "We certainly control him,"  
"Control him?" Dean asked, frowning.  
"Sure. We tell him who we want dead, and we get out of the way … You really have no idea what he’s capable of," The angel’s smirk only increased the sense of malaise that Sam felt burning in his stomach; radiating up to his head, making it ache. _He was missing something. He had to be_.  
"And how do you pick the targets?" Dean inquired.  
"They’re part of the plan - His plan. When it’s their turn to die, the Avenging Angel makes sure they do. And if we need them to die before their time, well … He complies. He doesn’t ask questions. Ever,"  
"So he’s an angel?" Dean asked. Sam found himself incapable of speaking, all of a sudden. The angel just laughed.  
"Put it this way - he’d much rather stop people than save them,"  
"I haven’t met an angel in years that actually wanted to save anyone," Dean replied angrily. The angel’s smile faltered slightly.  
"He’s been doing it for centuries," He elaborated. "It’s just that recently we gave him a fancy suit, helped him see things our way, and gave him a couple of … Modifications," The angel told them cryptically. Sam didn’t miss the way he wiggled his fingers, leering at the two of them as he spoke, with a smile at some private joke on his face. 

"Who is he?" Sam asked, quieter than he’d have liked. The angel seemed to shiver, and looked around suddenly - after a moment, his gaze turned to Sam, a slow smile spreading across his face.  
"Why don’t you ask him yourself?" The angel asked. Sam bristled, his eyes flicking to Dean in panic. "He’s on his way, any second now …" The angel specified, looking around the dingy warehouse room they were stood in once more. 

Then, suddenly, he was there. The assassin - the fucking _Avenging Angel_ , Sam thought, though he still really hated that name. 

The pictures didn’t do him justice: he really wasn’t an angel at all - or, rather, he looked nothing like one. The muscles, the shaggy hair, the military-grade modern armour … And metal hands. Sam realised that without their hands, an angel couldn’t function properly, anyway - couldn’t heal someone, or put them to sleep, or exorcise with a touch. The assassin’s hands were cybernetic, made of shining silver metal - they were in no way capable of blessing or cursing. 

"There you are … Might as well remove your mask, and show them who you are. You are here to destroy them, after all," The captured angel spoke to the newcomer. 

The eyes that were just visible above the line of the facial mask the assassin wore were sunken, and dusted with a charcoal black that only emphasised how sinister they were - how mechanical, just like his hands. Those same eyes scanned the room, and settled on the angel in the circle of holy fire. 

Suddenly, he was surging forward, leaping with the skill and precision of an acrobat across the flames and into the angel, who barrelled over, and landed screaming in the holy fire.  
"No! No! They must be the targets - _I’m_ not - I’m an angel! I _command_ you!” The angel was screaming, as Sam and Dean backed away with twin expressions of awe and horror at the sight they were witnessing.  
"I didn’t mean to give away secrets! Kill them now, they won’t tell - I command you!" The angel screamed still, his tone more begging as the skin on his vessel’s face blistered and burned, blackening as the assassin took the angel’s head in his hands. 

It was clear the angel was near death: after all, an angel can’t cross out of a circle of holy fire without dying. But the added burden on the angel of having its vessel’s neck snapped finished it off. It sagged limply into the flames, where its vessel continued to burn, face-down on the ground; burnt black wings blossomed out across the floor. 

The assassin planted one of his hands between the shoulder-blades of the angel’s vessel: one of the cybernetic hands glowed, and as Sam watched, he realised that the burns on the victims’ backs must have been electrical burns.  
"Sam - Sammy, we need to move, now,” Dean was hissing to him, tugging his arm. But he was frozen stock still, watching as the assassin rose from his grim task. He used the carcass of the angel’s vessel, burnt and crisping, as a path to walk across the flames. His eyes were piercing blue, staring straight at Sam - the Winchester brother that chose to look him in the eye, and stand his ground. Whether it was through fear or curiosity - _or that other, unidentifiable feeling he’d had about this whole case that made him want to scream and rip his hair out as the sense of wrongness boiled over inside of him_ \- he stood stock-still. 

Then, as he’d been commanded earlier, the assassin took off his mask. The face beneath it had the same stubble as before; eyes the same shade of blue, and cheekbones with the same definition. But it was also paler and rougher around the edges than the face Sam saw in his imagination; the eyes heavy with violent intent that made Sam want to weep. Those eyes held none of the recognition that Sam’s own eyes did at that moment, wide and shocked. Similar to Sam’s, the assassin’s hair was long - but it was darker, and on him it looked so completely wrong that Sam couldn’t stand it. 

Dean had stopped trying to get him to leave, now. They were both just staring - Sam found himself incapable of speech for around a minute, as the assassin strode slightly closer, before stopping a few yards away. _Not close enough to touch_. He might as well be one of Sam’s imagined figures, in his bed beside him, seen through a veil of eyelashes and hopeless wishes. 

"Castiel?" He asked, his voice confused, hopeful, and laced with betrayal and upset, all at once. The face of the man in front of him only changed a fraction: he frowned slightly more. He flexed his cybernetic fingers, still fresh from murdering an angel in front of the brothers: Sam thought about all the times the missing flesh-and-blood hands had held his own; how many times they’d touched him, and clutched at him; how many soft embraces and caresses he’d experienced, up until five years ago, when the one he loved was taken so cruelly from him. 

The Avenging Angel’s reply did more to demoralise, sicken and _break_ Sam than the act of violence he’d just witnessed the assassin commit did: 

"Who the hell is Castiel?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to write anymore, but . . . Here I am!! So you get one extra chapter. Thanks for all the support, as always!!

"He's . . . Different, from before," 

Metatron smiled condescendingly at Naomi. He highly doubted what she was saying. 

"Really? How so?" He asked, making it clear that he didn't believe her; that he thought she was being stupid, or paranoid. Perhaps both.  
"I can't really . . . Well, I suppose he's a little more erratic," She clarified, though it was hard to put into words what had changed about their assassin.  
"Since he killed an angel?" Metatron inquired, still regarding her worries as trivial. After all - he was the one with the plan, now. What he said was gospel, and this certainly wasn't his will.  
"Since he met the Winchesters, again," 

Metatron sighed, and stood up from his desk. He walked around it, past Naomi, and to the chair where the assassin was seated. Like usual, it sat forward, cybernetic hands clasped together. Its stare was heavy, yet blank: Metatron was pleased with this particular piece of work - it never failed to unsettle and impress him. Unlike Dr. Frankenstein from one of the novels he loved so much, he treasured his creation: he controlled it, and made use of it. It did his bidding, no questions asked - and then he wiped its memory. 

It was simple, yet perfect - proving once again that he could outshine the old God on any and every level he saw fit to attempt. 

He regarded the assassin for a moment more: it didn't meet his eye. It had more respect than that - or it simply wasn't curious enough. He'd eliminated all free will from it, after all: it didn't even move without his say-so, or that of one of its superiors. 

But aside from, and perhaps in spite of that, it seemed to like what it did. It certainly performed to a very high standard, anyway. 

"Those two men," He sighed once more, "They were important, once . . . Part of His plan . . . But they've outlived their usefulness. And they are certainly not part of my plan. Agents of a chaos, in my ordered world," He told Naomi. She shifted on her feet, for a moment.  
"What would you like me to do, sir?"  
"I-"

"Who was that human?" 

Both of them stopped, and stared: they looked down at the stormy face of the assassin. Undoubtedly, the question had come from it - its voice was gravelly with disuse, and troubled; confused, and asking questions. Metatron eyed it with a certain degree of clinical interest, while Naomi looked vaguely horrified. She knew he could talk, but . . . He just never asked questions, before. 

"He knew me," The assassin continued and, for once, looked up and into Naomi's eyes. "He knew me," He repeated - it sounded like a question.  
"Yes," She told him plainly, maintaining eye contact. Heaven knew he didn't get enough of it - or conversation, for that matter, aside from orders and directives.  
"He called me . . . He called me C-c-" The assassin mumbled, his brow furrowing as he tried to remember what had happened last night, during his previous mission. 

"That man is trying to disrupt my plans, I fear. So he is your next target," Metatron cut in, not wanting the conversation to go on any longer, lest it remember its relationship with the younger Winchester in a previous life, and develop . . . _Side-effects_. It had already displayed way too much original thought - and it was time to nip that in the bud. "His name is Sam Winchester," 

The assassin's mouth twitched, as if he wanted to repeat the name back; for a moment, Naomi thought she saw something like recognition in his eyes - but then it was gone, along with his look of confusion. He had purpose, now: he had a mission. 

"Wipe him," Metatron commanded her, his eyes still on the assassin. "Go as deep as possible. We don't want anything to come of this, now, do we?" He asked, with a smile that made Naomi bristle, and look away. She didn't like how he treated her, that was for certain - but he was the self-proclaimed new God, so what choice did she have? . . . There was no such thing as choice, nowadays. Not for her, and not for the assassin.  
"Yes sir," She replied, looking slightly morose, before turning to the assassin, as Metatron walked away and back to his desk. He always liked to have a good view for this part. 

The assassin sat back, as usual, and allowed himself to be tied down. Naomi picked up her hammer and a long, thin metal rod, before leaning in towards his face and telling him,  
"Hold still," 

Metatron didn't flinch when the screaming began: it was inevitable - after all, Naomi was his best girl, when it came to hacking into an angel's brain; that process inevitably hurt the subject, but Metatron thought it was a small price to pay.

Besides, Castiel had been hacked so many times before: he didn't even know who he was anymore. He didn't know how to rebel, or go against them, or choose not to follow an order. He had no free will: he would assure that Metatron's plans all went off without a hitch. 

_On Earth, as it is in heaven_ , Metatron thought to himself with a smile, the screams music to his ears as they drowned out all other noise, including his own self-satisfied chuckle. 

-

When the assassin comes for Sam, he isn't surprised. He's just sad, for Castiel. 

He appears in their motel room one night, when Dean has gone out for a drink - he decided to stay in the motel, not feeling up to going out and having fun. It had been a week since they'd seen the Avenging Angel in person - since Castiel had looked him in the eye, and not recognised him; since Castiel hadn't even recognised his own name. 

Fair enough, vessels were . . . _Tricky_. But something told him that was no other angel, and it _definitely_ wasn't Jimmy. Cas had just _gone_ , after all - he supposed it had been too much to ask for that Cas would be at peace, at last. No more fighting, no more death, no more pain . . . No. Cas was cursed, just like Dean was. He'd loved Sam, after all. 

He'd been poring over the research with a glass of whiskey for the millionth time - they'd just finished a vampire case, but Sam brought his latest Avenging Angel research with them everywhere, in case he suddenly had an idea or some form of breakthrough about how to catch him; how to . . . How to _save_ him. If that's even possible. 

Sam doesn't feel guilty for drinking, anymore. In fact, he does it a lot more, of late - he understands Dean a little bit more, now, he thinks as he downs the last of the spirit. He's reaching for the bottle when an almost imperceptible change in the shadows in the corner of the room makes him freeze. Slowly, he looks up. 

He can just make the outline of a silhouette in the darkness: he'd been researching in meagre lamplight, so the main light source is the drifting moonlight, seeping in through ineffective curtains. What gives the assassin away, though, is his hands: the silver glints in the moonlight, and the mechanical parts whir and click against one another as the fingers flex. 

Sam gulps, blinks a few times, and wonders what the fuck to do.  
As a reflex, he stands up and reaches for the gun at the small of his back in one smooth motion - but before he can get a shot off, he finds his arm crushed in the grip of one of those metal hands, compressed by its punishing grip and forced to drop his weapon. He cries out, and flails with his free fist, only succeeding in smacking his knuckles into the hard facial mask of the assassin. 

His eyes look into Sam's own, blank and yet somehow simultaneously furious with him, as he flings out its free hand to grab at Sam's neck. The punch to his throat renders him unable to breathe for a few terrifying seconds, his eyes widening with panic as the assassin grips his throat, strangling him. 

As if he weighs nothing, he's carried by the throat to the nearest wall as he chokes for breath, and slammed into the surface hard enough to loosen the plaster. There, the assassin holds him, his tight grip on Sam's neck and forearm pinning him in place. 

He flails with his free arm, but it's no use: he can never get free, or convince the assassin to let go. He's going to die, now - there's no two ways about it. But, as his vision grows dimmer and greys out around the edges, merging with the shadows that surround them in the shade from the moonlight . . . He knows he has to do something to help Castiel. It's essential, to him - he can't leave Cas to be controlled and ordered around in this way. Not Castiel, who'd fought for free will; not Castiel, who'd taken on the devil with them, and helped them win.  
Not Castiel, who'd loved him in a way even he'd thought no angel could. 

"C-c-" Sam grits out, but finds himself completely unable to talk. The assassin's eyes never change in their dark, murderous intent; he remains as still as possible, while choking the life out of his target.  
Sam's hand finally manages to scrape together some semblance of coordination - gently, ever so gently, his fingers drag down the assassin's mask; he grips it, and pulls it away from his face, tugging at the fastenings so that it comes away from his skin. 

The assassin looks confused, but allows it to happen - Sam flings the mask away with abandon, his limbs barely cooperating anymore with the lack of air. But he manages one last move: his free hand cups Castiel's cheek, caressing the stubbly skin, and stroking at the charcoal black under his eye with a thumb. He brushes shaggy, near-black hair from the assassin's pasty, roughened face.  
"I - I st-st-" He stammers. He feels the assassin's grip grow ever so slightly looser, allowing him to finish his sentence; he stows his own need to breathe with the urgency of his message: "I - still think y-you're one of - one of us," 

_I still love you_. 

The assassin frowns, his jaw set, looking more confused than ever. But he doesn't have long to contemplate the message: Sam's eyes roll back into his skull, and he goes limp in the assassin's arms. He lets go of the target abruptly, and watches him crumple to the ground. 

Bending down, the assassin gathers up his mask, and puts it back on. Turning his target over, he promptly plants one hand between his shoulder-blades - he's about to mark him, when he suddenly sees something he hasn't seen in a very long time, but is incredibly familiar: he can see the target's soul - it's still glowing, still blindingly bright . . . The target isn't dead. His eyes widen, and he turns the target over once more - perhaps he hadn't applied enough pressure . . . Perhaps he hadn't wanted to apply more . . . Perhaps he didn't - maybe . . . 

_Don't do what he says_ , he remembers Naomi whispering to him, during his latest wipe. _You still have a choice. He's not the new God - no more killing on his orders. No more adhering to his plan . . . No more._

The assassin stands up, drawing himself to his full height, and looking down at the body beneath him. Metatron wants him to murder this man, but Naomi wants him to disregard Metatron - and this man, he was - he knew him. This man - this Sam Winchester - Sam thinks he is one of them, whoever ' _them_ ' refers to, for some reason. 

There is something he isn't remembering. Whatever it is burns like a hole in his heart - a heart, incidentally, that he'd believed he no longer even possessed. 

He considers the bruises starting to form on Sam Winchester's neck with a feeling somewhere on the line between indifference, and care - he's never known that line to be so thin, before - so easy to cross . . . He's never hesitated in murdering someone before, in his memory. 

But his memory is incredibly short. 

". . . Castiel," The name arrives unbidden to his lips, rasped out as he looks down at the man's lips; imagines them forming the name. Is he imagining, though? Or remembering? . . . Is he imagining or remembering those lips smiling, laughing, pressed to his skin . . . ? 

With those images fresh in his mind, he makes his decision, reaching down for his target once more. 

-

"Sammy?! Sammy - what the hell-"

"Dean?" Sam mumbles, his throat on fire, and feeling fragile to the point of agony. He winces, as speech exacerbates the problem: his voice comes out hoarse, as weak and feeble as his mental processes at that moment. He feels light headed, and his arm feels as if it's lost a fight with a meat grinder. 

Suddenly, it all comes back to him - not a meat grinder, but a metal hand - crushing, strangling, _choking_ -

"Where is he?!" Sam cries, though it's a strangled sound. He opens his eyes, and sees Dean sitting down beside him - he's on his bed, _how is he on the bed?_

His neck feels cold, too - he can see Dean holding an ice pack, looking quizzically at it.  
"Where's who? Sammy, what's this?" He asks, gesturing to the ice pack, and then focussing on the bruises on Sam's neck. "What the hell are those?!" 

"The Avenging Angel - Cas - Castiel was here, he attacked me-" Sam explains breathlessly.  
"I'll kill him-!" Dean growls.  
"No, Dean, he - he stopped, he . . . The ice pack - he was strangling me, and my arm, and . . ."

There's a moment of silence between them: they share a look of disbelief.  
". . . Then how did you get in bed with a damn ice pack, and-" Dean points to Sam's arm: it has a makeshift splint on it, made with various parts of their first-aid kit taped and bound together rather expertly. 

". . . Sammy, do you - do you think you got through to him?"  
"I . . . I don't know . . . Dean," Sam sits up properly, despite Dean's protests, batting his hands away with his good arm. 

"Dean, we have to go after him. If they find out he didn't kill me . . . We - we just need to go after him," He demands.  
". . . Okay, Sammy," Dean agrees. Sam stares at him incredulously, clearly having expected more of a fight. "Cas is my friend . . . And he, well, he was your . . ." Dean trails off awkwardly, pausing for a moment, before finishing.  
"We'll find him, Sammy. You and me together. We'll find him - and we'll make those sons of bitches pay for what they did to him, too,"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely not the cheeriest thing I've ever written. But tws is leaving me emotionally compromised at the moment. Enjoy!!

Really, Sam knew that any sort of alliance with Crowley wouldn’t end well. You could never really be allies with Crowley, ever – you could just want the same things, and try not to get in one another’s way. Then after all was said and done, you’d be at cross-purposes again . . . Yeah, he and Dean should really have known they’d be running for their lives within minutes of killing the demon Crowley had also wanted dead. 

But there were some things Sam couldn’t know. Some things they he wasn’t ready for, either. 

Crowley had brought two hellhounds that seemed to be around his shoulder height, replacing the one Sam had killed a few years ago – kill one, and two more take its place. _Figures_ , he thinks, as he and Dean reach the end of the corridor. Of course this deal had to go down in an abandoned mental hospital from the sixties – melodrama appeared alive and well in the demon community. 

He shoots his gaze backwards, but can see nothing, as usual: they hadn’t exactly known they’d be needing their glasses torched with holy fire on this case. Crowley is long gone, leaving them with just the invisible beasts to contend with, and no way of seeing them. _Just_. 

“Go that way, meet you outside!” He yells to his brother, turning left while his brother turns right, no time for arguing. One hellhound each is still a problem – but not nearly as much as two after the two of them, where there would undoubtedly be a chance of the two creatures going for one brother, and dragging him down with their combined weights. 

Sam doesn’t have time to look back at Dean; doesn’t have time to think about how he might have just passed up the opportunity to see him alive for the last time. 

The two of them have the means to fight: Dean has the demon-killing knife, and Sam has an angel blade. But when they can’t see their targets, it’s pretty ineffectual to try and engage them. So, they both run off in their separate directions, though neither of them are particularly hopeful. 

Sam is confronted with a few doors at the end of the corridor – one left, one right, one straight ahead – and wishes he had paid more attention to the blueprints of the hospital he’d looked up online. Sure, he’d looked through them – but he hadn’t thought he’d be getting a full tour of the damn place before the night was through. 

Grimacing, he opts for the door to the right – he knows, as soon as he’s through the door, that he’s made a mistake. There are no other doors in this room: it has a high ceiling, and some rusty old medical equipment; the floor is covered in broken mirror shards and the feathery contents of several old pillows – your typical horror-movie-style nightmare-fodder – but it’s all of zero consequence if Sam can’t get away. 

He turns back to the door, and hears straight away that the thing is too close for him to leave the room and start running again. Hissing out a quick curse, he slams the door shut, and locks it, before planting his back against it just as the beast lunges into the thick metal. He winces and grunts as it rams continuously into the door, trying to dislodge him so it can attack and rip him to pieces. 

His eyes are wide as he looks around the room between flinching with the force of the hellhound’s attacks, but he sees nothing that can help him; nothing that will allow him to escape, without being shredded into bloody pieces. There isn’t even anything that can help him stall – no windows, aside from the few smashed ones in the ceiling high above. 

He’s well and truly trapped. 

Then, his eyes settle on something in the shadows. 

He feels his breath come short – all of a sudden he’s back to two years ago, pressed up against motel wallpaper with shards of plaster falling all around   
him, forced back and held up by his neck. He almost doesn’t notice the hellhound at the door, as the shadows move, and spit out a figure shrouded in darkness. 

He moves, as he did before, like a ghost; light and stealthy, with hardly any sound. Aside from the clicking and whirring of those shining metal hands, of course. 

Piercing blue eyes stare out at him from over the top of the black facial mask, and from under several locks of shaggy dark brown hair. Then, he cocks his head to one side in a way that makes Sam feel homesick: homesick for the person who’d used to make him feel like he was home, rather than an actual place. 

Homesick for a person that he'd never see again. Homesick for something that would never come back to him. 

Sam has been frozen since he’d seen the figure step forth, his heart wallowing somewhere around his feet, and his mouth hanging open. Suddenly, the hellhound slams into the door particularly hard, denting the metal and sending a bolt of pain through Sam’s upper back. 

He hisses, brought out of his trance, and squeezing his eyes shut. He’s almost afraid to open them again – afraid that the assassin won’t be there when he does . . . Perhaps afraid that he _will_ be there. 

But when Sam looks up, he’s still there: still staring, the muscles around his charcoaled eyes twitching like he can’t decide which facial expression he wants to pull beneath his mask. Sam wants to say so much – he wants to ask him where he’s been, and what he’s doing. He wants to ask him if he’s there to help him, or to kill him. 

Sam needs to ask him if he remembers him – even a little bit. Even _at all_. 

The assassin takes another step forward, relaxing into a poised fighting stance that looks more natural than his neutral standing position. He pulls out an angel blade from a sheath on his back, the sound of it withdrawing making Sam cringe, his eyes becoming impossibly larger as he sees a silver hand clasp a silver handle. 

Then he makes a gesture – one gesture, no words – that has Sam flying to the side, and out of the way of the door. 

He nods his head to one side, commanding Sam out of the way of the door without even speaking. 

Sam hesitates only for one second, fearing that he will be killed if he gets any closer to the assassin – but wanting to do it anyway, because he needs to talk to him, to be close to him, to hold him again _even if it’s while he slips a knife in between his ribs-_

He’s dead anyway. He’d rather die at the hands of a servant of heaven than a hound from hell – even if he no longer knew that servant. 

Sam leaps out of the way, falling to the floor a few metres away from the door, just as the hellhound bursts in, dragging its feet across the ground, as if preparing to charge. Sam scrambles onto his back, backing away across the dingy, glass-covered floor, uncaring when his hands are mutilated by the sharpness of the pieces of what used to be a mirror, and what used to be a window. 

By the time he looks up, the assassin is already a blur of movement: the way he handles the blade, the way he moves, the speed with which his attacks occur . . . They are all so unlike the angel he used to know that he finds himself biting his lip, watching the action mutely, silent as if he’s at a funeral. In many ways, he is. 

He certainly isn’t celebrating the old Cas’ life, but he sure is mourning it. 

He knows, now, that there’s probably no way he is ever going to get the old Cas back: the way he moves makes it clear that the killer instinct he’s been given is too engrained to ever be washed clean; he’s forgotten what it’s like to empathise, to feel. This is what he is now. He’s too far gone – as he glimpses flashes of silver, Sam is reminded of the headlines stuck up on the walls of one of the rooms of the bunker. The walls are covered in black and white, the contrast making him feel lost, trapped inside the headlines with no chance of escape; no way to climb out of this hole of conspiracy and deceit he fell into, upon beginning to investigate the _Avenging Angel_. 

It had been two years since he’d left Sam with an icepack and an arm splint, to combat injuries he’d given the hunter. Sam had moved his research to a room in the bunker which he then dedicated to finding Cas. 

But it was fruitless, because Cas is a ghost. Gone, without a trace. Dead, or hiding – it doesn’t matter. The effect, for Sam, is the same. 

Sam stopped looking a year ago. The door to the room hadn’t been opened in that whole time – but he wouldn’t clear it out. He’d felt like he’d truly given up – but, somehow still, he couldn’t face throwing all his research out. 

That’s how he knows, deep down, he hasn’t quite given up – not yet. It’s also how he knows that this situation will end badly: whether the assassin is here to help or hurt him, it doesn’t matter. Sam knows he’s going to be devastated. Especially if his suspicions about being unable to get the old Cas back are true. 

Black blood sprays across the room, a few droplets landing on Sam, as the creature gives an almighty roar; the sound is simultaneously a screech and a bellow, creating the most hideous noise Sam has heard since the last time he’d killed a hellhound. He hears an almighty thump as the beast presumably topples to one side, growing slack as the assassin pulls his knife from what he assumes to be the beast’s belly. It looks as if he’d gutted it while it was still alive – Sam wonders for a moment if that’s what will happen to him. If he doesn’t have symbols burned into his back like the others, then perhaps the assassin will butcher him like an animal – humans are only animals to angels, anyway. 

Cas was the only angel he’d met that really, truly contested that. He’d been one of the only angels that had listened and obeyed when their Father had told them to love humanity. 

He’d definitely loved Sam; he’d loved Sam before he truly knew what it felt like to love something that wasn’t his Father. He’d been confused, and upset, and longing – just as Sam had been. He didn’t mean to fall for an angel, either: in fact, he’d been certain it was a sin to do so, especially for an abomination like him. 

But they’d worked it out. They’d made it. They always pulled through, in the end. 

But not this time. Because, if the assassin were to gut Sam, the hunter thought that nothing would come out: his insides would be as black and thick as the beast’s, twisted and angry and distraught for his lost love. He certainly wouldn’t be able to pull his heart from his chest. 

He’d already taken it. He’d already lost it. 

When the assassin stands up straight, Sam gulps; he turns around, and Sam is afraid to move under his gaze. If he was there, it wasn’t good news for Sam – it could only mean that he was coming back for round two. Cas hadn’t remembered him, or his own name the first time they’d met like this – perhaps someone was interfering with his memory? 

Maybe they took his memories, again; maybe he wouldn’t have the same lapse in judgement, this time, as had lead him to leave Sam alive last time. 

Sam shifts back slightly, shuffling into the path of the moonlight that illuminates the room through the hole in the ceiling where the window used to be. The light is blinding for a moment to his eyes, which have become accustomed to the darkness; he squints, shading his eyes, and watching the assassin. 

He watches Sam back. 

When he takes a step forwards, Sam shuffles back: he doesn’t want to get up, afraid he might look like he’s going for his weapon, or trying to harm the assassin. Sure, he wants to get his gun – _at the small of his back, unable to be accessed inconspicuously_ – but he’d rather wait for the guy to make his move. After all, last time it’d been abundantly clear that he was there to kill Sam: this time, he isn’t so quick to act; isn’t so single-minded and focussed. As Sam moves out of the light, he can see those blue eyes regarding him coldly, as usual – but there’s an edge of thoughtfulness to their analytical gaze. 

Sam is afraid to make a move, afraid to breathe, when the assassin reaches up to his mask. He unfastens it from his face and pulls it away just as Sam had when he’d been pinned by metal hands against a wall. He stows the mask on his back – but Sam isn’t watching his grim silver hands. He only watches his face, frowning perpetually as he concentrates on his task. Then, he looks up, his eyes void of emotion as usual. Sam doesn’t move a muscle. 

“I was sent to kill you,” 

His voice is impossibly rough and gravelly. It obviously hasn’t been used in days – if not weeks, months, _years-_  
“. . . Before. Not now,” He clarifies, seeing Sam’s look of panic. The panic fades somewhat, though Sam still isn’t sure where he stands with the assassin. He’s calmed somewhat when the assassin sheaths his angel blade on his back – but the gesture can only go so far. He still feels frozen solid, unable to speak. 

“Get up,” He commands. Sam gulps again, bringing his hands to his sides and slowly – ever so slowly, as if any sudden moves will cost him his life – he stands. He looks away from the assassin for a brief moment, seeing vibrant red coat his shredded hands. He doesn’t feel the pain; he’s numb, his legs replaced with jelly, and his tongue with sawdust. 

_His voice is different_. Not just the tone, or the obvious disuse – but he sounds unused to speaking English. Sam wonders if he’s been speaking Enochian this whole time. 

“You are Sam?” He asks. It’s all Sam can do to nod. The assassin’s gaze lingers on the blood coating his hands for a moment, and his brow furrows to an even greater degree than before, for a moment or two. “A Winchester?” Sam nods again. “A Man of Letters?” A third nod.   
“Yes. I was definitely sent to kill you,” The assassin confirms, mainly to himself. He casts his gaze around the room; stares for a good moment and a half at his reflection in a shard of mirror on the floor. Sam watches as he brings up one metal hand to his stubbly face; traces his eyes, surrounded by charcoal black, and his cheeks, coated with scruff, with cold metal fingers. He can’t feel it. 

Sam realises, feeling sick, that he must not see himself frequently. And with his memory being wiped so often . . . He must not know what he looks like. Well – at least, what his vessel looks like. Whether or not he knows what his true form looks like – or even knows about his true form at all – is a whole other question he doesn’t want to know the answer to. 

Sam nods again. 

“I . . . Knew you,”   
Sam holds his breath.   
“. . . So I let you go,” Sam lets out the breath. Not a genuine memory, then – just what he’d been told. “You knew me,” He adds. “You called me . . . Castiel. Cas,” He talks in short sentences, with no superfluous syllables or words. Short, low sound bites; combative, utilitarian. Sam makes himself wince at the thought that they – whoever they were – programmed him to be a soldier. 

He finally plucks up the courage to speak.   
“What . . . What happened after – after last time?” He asks, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible. He tries to make himself seem less of a threat, and be conversational – but it’s hard, when the man he’s loved and pined over for years is standing in front of him for the first time since trying to kill him. And he barely recognises him.   
“I was on the run for a while. I broke down. They caught me, wiped me. Put me back to sleep,” The assassin summarises, flexing his cybernetic fingers and staring at them. “Woke up two months ago. Had an assignment . . . Managed to escape again. Remembered you – I’ve been following you for a month, Sam Winchester,” 

Sam’s eyes widen. A month?! 

“Why – why did you choose now?” He asks, gesturing all around him with his hands. He doesn’t fail to notice how the assassin flinches backwards slightly at the movement, as if he’s preparing to counter-attack.   
“I did not want you to die. The hellhound would have killed you,” He answers, as if it’s simple.   
“You can’t remember me, though,” Sam points out carefully. The assassin merely nods. After a pause, Sam adds, “. . . So why did you want to save me?”   
“I felt . . . Inclined to do so. I’m not sure why,” 

_I still think you’re one of us._

The assassin brings his hand to his temple for a moment, zoning out for a few seconds as the only new memory he’d managed to obtain in a month made itself known. He’d been strangling Sam Winchester – the man had removed his mask, touched his face – _skin on skin contact_ – looked into his eyes – told him he was a friend – 

“Something helped you remember, last time,” Sam tells him.   
“I don’t recall,” The assassin replies shortly.   
“. . . But do you know _what_ helped you remember?” Sam persists.   
“Yes,” He confirms, glad to know one thing; but the truth, as always, is messy and unfortunate. “I understand I used to have my memory wiped by an angel. Naomi. She did a poor job that time, on purpose. She wished for me to remember,” He pauses for a moment, licking his lips and looking a little   
confused. “. . . She is dead now. Disobeying orders,” 

Sam bows his head – he hadn’t known Naomi, but it sounded as if she’d been trying to set Cas free. _Better late than never_ , he supposed. But now she’s dead: he supposes she won’t be the ally he’d hoped she could be when Cas had first mentioned her. 

“Whose orders?” Sam asks, frowning. Surely, not . . . Not God?   
“An angel. Metatron. He is in control of heaven. He is looking for me as we speak,”   
“. . . Right,” Sam accepts. He knows Cas is being sought, and it probably isn’t safe here – but he has more questions that he desperately needs answering. “. . . So you . . . You want to come with me?”   
“Yes,” He nods once as he speaks. It’s the first time he’s done anything that Sam would class as similar to Cas, this whole time; even when he cocked his   
head to one time, it was unfamiliar and twisted – nothing like the angel he used to be. 

Sam takes a deep breath, and watches as the assassin makes his way to the door with steady, swift steps. He can’t help himself – the question has been burning inside of him since he’d seen the assassin viciously murder one his brothers in a circle of holy fire. 

“Do you know what you were? Who you were?” The assassin turns around with a quizzical look on his face, looking Sam up and down as if trying to understand the importance of his question. “. . . Do you know who you were to me?” 

The assassin just stares. Sam can feel his eyes watering, but still he refuses to yield, looking Cas directly in the eye and mentally willing him to remember. _Cas, please. You have to remember me._

Castiel just looks down, a vaguely apologetic expression gracing his features as he stares at the floor, covered in feathers and glass. He looks ashamed. 

“I was Castiel. I was . . . An angel. I am not sure if I still am,” It sounds like a confession, softer than his usual words; more introspective. Sam finds himself holding his breath again, eagerly awaiting what he would say next. “. . . I remember that you were an ally. That is all,” 

Sam sniffs, and looks down, a teardrop falling to the floor as he’s consumed by a sense of complete and utter defeat. Castiel is lost. He isn’t the angel, the _person_ that Sam had fallen in love with. That person has been sawn and stitched and burned away, leaving behind cold metal hands and colder calculating eyes. He isn’t a blank slate, but as far as Sam was concerned, he is – how can this person ever compare to the great, beloved Castiel, with his wings broad and tall, and his eyes glowing blue-white as his grace seeps through? 

He can’t compare. He can never compare. But Sam is stuck with what remains. 

“Come on. Quickly,” The assassin urges him. “They will send more hounds after you and your sibling if we do not leave immediately,”   
Then, he holds out a hand: a silver thing that gleams in the moonlight, alluring but not at all inviting. But he’s holding it out to Sam – the younger Winchester can’t bring himself to say no. 

The hand is slightly warmer than expected – but still much below the temperature of his own skin, sapping it of warmth and life as he clasps Sam’s hand as gently as possible. Castiel had always been gentle, soft . . . But even the gentlest grasp from the metal hand is punishingly tight, and heavy. Sam accepts, then, that he will never get his old friend back. Castiel is gone, and this shell is all that’s left. 

He’s sure he’ll never love again. 

. . . The truth of the matter is, though, that the assassin has one old memory of Sam. He doesn’t want to share it: it’s confusing, and painful, and so irrelevant to the person he is now that he had almost disregards it. But it is Naomi’s last gift to him: her machinations led to him remembering one, solitary thing from his life before he became what he is. 

He knows it isn't the one he’d have picked, if given the choice to remember anything of Sam. He’d have much preferred a memory of fighting alongside him: how he moved, his weapons of choice, his fighting style. He would have even taken a memory of negotiating with or alongside him: what he fought for, and how he tried to get it without getting his hands bloody. 

But what he’d gotten was a brief snapshot of his old life: under some sort of covers, soft yellow light seeping in, a smile, a soft kiss, his old flesh hand tucking a strand of Sam’s dark brown hair behind his ear as the younger Winchester blushed . . . It is an intimate memory. He doubts he’ll ever share it with Sam Winchester, though. It would be incredibly easily for him to become compromised if he did so; if he chose to wallow in the memory, and seek more of its kind. 

No, things will never go back to the way they were before: flesh hands were merely phantoms now, and old memories merely ghosts. But yes, he will still protect Sam Winchester. 

Wings he’s forgotten he has, charred and broken and invisible, curl around Sam momentarily as he comes closer. What's left of his grace pines for Sam Winchester in the same way as Sam's soul yearns for Castiel: like muscle memory, instinct; seeking comfort that they will never achieve from one another again. As Sam moves away, his forgotten wings unfurl, withdrawing and never touching him as he lets go of the assassin’s metal hand. 

He will forever be out of reach.


End file.
